He smiles, his hand brushing my cheek. “Go on,” he says gently. “I’ll check in with you tonight.”
He watches me exit, approach my door, try my key. I push it open, and a chaotic commercial blares from the living room TV, colliding with the familiar “Front door open” chime from Robot Woman. The lights hum in every room—my pathetic attempt at making the house look occupied apparently worked. Hopefully, my car in the driveway helped scare anyone off—if they’ve even been back since last night. They could be at work right now in Seattle. Say, at Pacific Records.
I throw Rory a thumbs-up through the downpour, thrust the lock in place, and sweep the house, busting each door open with forced confidence. Like the officer said, all clear. When I know I’m alone, I head back to the kitchen. The stove’s clock informs me it’s just after noon. Nearly an hour until lunch with Macy. I make myself useful, knowing that the sooner I finish the house, the sooner I’ll be safely back in Seattle. Taping fresh boxes, I unravel the entire kitchen.
By the time the last box is taped shut, the kitchen feels hollow in a way I’ve never seen it. The counters are stripped bare, every cupboard emptied, every plate and mug swaddled in paper. Early afternoon light slants through the rain-streaked windows asBewitchedmurmurs from the living room TV—cheerful, familiar voices keeping me company while I work. I linger on certain things longer than I mean to: the set of orange ceramic leaf plates she broke out at Thanksgiving, a French bulldog cookie jar for our late dog, Pearl.
The kitchen is a skeleton.
I wipe my palms on my jeans, grab my cell phone off the counter,and punch in Macy’s number. Whatever dirt she has on Harrison feels more important now than ever.
“Macy Easton,” she chimes, like a well-rehearsed line.
“Hey,” I say, nervous. “It’s Imogen. Is this still a good time?”
“Hey,” she whispers. I hear a door click shut. “I’m just getting back to my desk for lunch.”
My questions better be worth it.
“I won’t take up too much of your time,” I promise. “And I know it’s probably hard to talk about. But with my mom’s passing, I’m trying to figure some stuff out about Harrison Klein. Do you know him?”
“No, I never met him. I’ve seen him around town,” she says. “But Madison worked with him.”
“Um,” I start, mentally sorting my words. “Did she ever talk about him, positively or negatively?”
“A couple times. They worked closely together, so she’d mention his name in passing whenever she told me about certain work projects.”
I think back to the forum thread commenter, discussing the potential inappropriate contact by an executive at the label. With the minimal information I have, my question range is limited.
“So, nothing inappropriate was going on there? I’m just trying to gauge if he could be involved,” I say, almost stuttering. “I heard that he was the last person to talk to her before she went missing.”
“There were some sketchy things going on at Madison’s work.” She pauses. “I still have this loyalty to her… She told me stuff in confidence.”
“I understand. I don’t mean to pry.” My face meets my hand, my back sinking in the couch cushion. “With my mom’s death, and a recent break-in, it’s hard not to wonder what happened to her. And if someone here knows more, you know?”
“I get it,” she says, dropping back into a kind tone. “I know she loved her job. But basically… there was a manager of hers who was really… um”—Macy searches for a word—“unprofessional with her. He was the lead in her department—other than Harrison. Since Harrison was sort of, like, her other manager, she knew she could trust him, so she was going to tell him about the exec the day she disappeared. She actually texted me after talking to Harrison, saying that she felt relieved because he was outraged at the other manager’s behavior and was going to help her.” Macy sniffs. “About ten minutes after I got that text, she was last seen on those cameras.”
The executive in question wasn’t Harrison, then. It was someone else. And she was going to Harrison for help so that she could report her abuser and, hopefully, keep her beloved job.
“Aren’t police suspicious of the other guy? If she was going to report him right before she went missing?” I ask.
“Definitely. They interviewed him, but he was on a business trip the week she disappeared. It seems like he had the motive, but police couldn’t find any proof that he had done it, or even hired someone else to do it for him.” She pauses again. “At least, not that they’ve told me. There’s not much to go off of, since there’s no crime scene.” Her voice drops a notch. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s what he wanted all along. To make sure there’d be nothing left to find.”
A cold prickle runs across my scalp.
“Thanks for this,” I say. “I really hope they find her.”
“Don’t tellanyonewhat I told you. I never even told her family about what she was going through because… like I said, police apparently cleared him. I worried if they knew about him, they’d never let it go. I’m pretty sure I was the only person besides Harrison who knew about it.”
“I won’t say a thing.”
“Be careful, Imogen,” she warns, her tone sharper. “If you’re digging around in this… be careful who sees you doing it.”
Before I can ask what she means, the line clicks dead.
I lower the phone and collapse onto the couch in the fetal position.
Is Harrison the bad guy here?
